Circular Tracks
by estrafalaria103
Summary: The Apocalypse, what comes After, and what came Before. COMPLETE
1. Chapter 1

Sam ran his hands through his hair. It was long, dirty, probably blood-stained. He should get it cut. He knew that. There were a lot of things he should do. Unfortunately, he thought, there were very few things he _could_ do.

"Sam Winchester?" he glanced up at the sound of his name, found himself looking at a pretty young nurse. She was holding a clipboard in her hand, of course, the same way that nurses in hospitals seemed to always do. He wondered if there was even anything on the clipboard – his dad's chart was still lying off the edge of the bed.

"Yes?" he said, clearing this throat a little. He wondered why the nurse had come to get him. They'd said he could stay with his dad as long as he wanted – visiting hours didn't apply to family. He glanced involuntarily at the gruff man laid up in the hospital bed – the machines next to him kept beeping cheerfully. He seemed fine. So why. . .

And then the thought flew through his head, belated and stupid. _Dean_. He stood up too quickly, the world swaying gray at the edges. The half-full coffee cup he'd been holding tilted, too, lukewarm liquid added to the other stains on his pants.

"Dean!" he said desperately. "My brother – is he"

The woman looked concerned. She bit her lower lip. She was awfully young, Sam noticed. Probably just out of school, or maybe still in it. She really was pretty. "Your brother is still in surgery," she said. Sam nodded his head, body moving in jerky movements, a marionette doll. He felt that way, sometimes, like a thousand strings connected him, controlled him, pushed him ways he didn't want to go. Strings attached to his father, to his brother, to the damn life of hunting. Still in surgery. That was good, right? That meant he might still be okay.

"Mr. Winchester, when was the last time you've eaten?" she asked him. She stepped in a little closer. She smelled good, he realized. And, as her nose wrinkled, he realized that he probably did not. Her youth, he realized. Of course. Not a nurse at all, but a pity call, sent to check on the families. She probably didn't know anything about Dean or Dad. . .she was just there to make sure the third Winchester didn't become another patient.

"I had. . .uh. . ." Sam couldn't remember when he'd last eaten. Everything had been happening so fast. They'd been in the motel, they'd thought finally safe, but then Dad's eyes had turned yellow. . .and before that there had been the fire outfits, and Dean shooting that man, and the capture and. . . "I guess that maybe I had some cereal this morning," he said lamely. The young woman reached out and lay a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"Listen," she said. "I know you're on a trip here. I know you don't have anywhere to go, that you want to stay by your father and brother. But you have to take care of yourself. Across the street is a Ronald McDonald house. They'll let you use the shower, and then you can grab some food from the cafeteria."

It didn't escape Sam's notice that she told him to shower before eating. Maybe a change of clothes, too, he thought wryly. He doubted people in the hospital liked having someone in a blood-drenched jacket reminding them of why they were there. He glanced at his father again. John Winchester had been in surgery for two hours – not bad for two gunshot wounds, the doctor's had told him. Nothing vital had been hit. He would wake up in a few hours. That had been an hour ago. He probably still had time. Could shower, change, eat something. Be back by the time his father woke up. Be back by the time they let him see Dean, anyway.

"Yeah, okay," he said. "Do you have my –"

The woman held up the clipboard clutched in her hand. "Of course. I have your cell number. I'll give you the call the minute he wakes up." Sam opened his mouth, but she cut him off, one finger raised, before he could say anything else. "Or the moment I get news about your brother."

"Thanks," Sam said.

* * * * *

"Dude, seriously?" Dean glared at the zombie standing in front of him. Waves of stench were coming off him – the smell of rot, and decay. It was as bad as when they dug up a few weeks dead body. Putrid, disgusting, and sometimes with worms. Except that this body was still alive. Still moving. Still lucid.

The man who was formerly Nick stood in front of them, flesh literally dripping down the side of his face. His clothing sizzled, burst out into occasional little bursts of flame, as though it couldn't quite contain the heat from within. One of his eyes was milky white. He had not hair.

Dean had to force down the bile rising in his throat. He lifted the colt, aimed it straight at the creature's head. It hadn't worked in the past, of course, but damn, Lucifer looked like he was halfway back to Hell already. Maybe all his needed this time was a push.

"Enough," Lucifer said. "Enough meddling, Dean. I am tired of waiting. I don't have _time_ to wait." He raised his hand, gestured quickly. Dean pulled the trigger, knew it was a good shot, a moment before he went flying through the air, only to crash into a wall. His shoulders hit first. Good, he thought, although a searing shot through his right arm told him something might be dislocated. That was okay. He could deal with dislocated. He was still conscious, that was the good thing.

"Dean!" Sam shouted, but he didn't turn his gaze away from Lucifer. It was an involuntary yell, Dean realized. Born of instinct and habit. But there was no way to look out for each other. Not this day, not this time, not this place. Detroit. Sam was going to say yes, two years early.

It had been Dean's idea, to force the confrontation. They were still strong, he'd told Sam. They still believed in each other, still believed in free will. It was do or die, though, because he would feel his own faith waning. If they stood still too long, if they thought too much, they'd lose it. They'd lose it to Death, still cutting a swath through the southern US, or Pestilence, who had apparently set up shop in the Middle East, or to freakin' Michael, who had started showing up in Dean's head during the night, always in the guise of their father.

Dean pushed himself up, gripped his left shoulder tight. He'd been right about the shot – his aim as true as ever, the bullet had zinged straight into Lucifer's peeling forehead. . .and apparently gone right back out. Lucifer sighed, rubbed at his head as though he had a slight headache. Dean stared in disbelief as the hole covered over, healed right in front of his eyes.

"Enough," Lucifer said, and he sounded exhausted. "Sam, just say yes. Save us all of this bullshit. You know it's going to happen. I know it's going to happen. And I'm tired of playing nice."

Sam twitched a little. Dean shoved himself off the wall, stumbled a little with the first step, but regained his balance. He kept his mouth shut, for once. Trusted his brother. Trusted him to say no.

"Never," Sam said, low and certain. Lucifer cocked his head. "Okay, then," he said. He turned his horrible, milk-white gaze to Dean, and he felt an involuntary shudder go through him. He recognized that gaze. . .recognized in it a million screaming bodies, whips flashing, the light of his own soul dimming. . .

"That's it, Deano," Lucifer said. He snapped his finger. Pain ran down Dean's abdomen, sharp and ripping. He thought he could hear a dog growling. "Time's up. Reprieve from hell over. You're going back." Another rip, across his back this time. Dean fell to the ground, a scream ripping out of his chest.

"Dean!" Sam yelled, and a minute later Dean sensed his oversized brother at his side, cradling him in his arms. Dean sucked in a breath. It tore at his chest. He searched through dizzying shapes, finally found his brother's face in the maze of pain.

"You keep fighting," he rasped out. "Say no."

Sam nodded, but great, girlish sobs were ripping out of him. Dean closed his eyes, not giving up yet, just needing a moment. Hot tears fell on his face. Damn, he thought. Never got around to teaching Sam to cry like a man. Big baby still sputtered and teared up like a six year old who lost her doll.

"N-no," Sam said, but it didn't sound resolute at all. Another rip, across his chest again, and Dean could _feel_ his heart trying to escape.

"Its not just death," Lucifer hissed, and now Dean could taste the putrefication in the air. He tried to breathe in, something fresh, but all he could taste was flame and iron. "It's hell. And he's not breaking out this time. No angels will save him. Eternity in Hell, Sam. Is that what you want for your brother? Just think of what he went through last time. . .and that was only four months."

"N-no," Dean said, but he had to choke it up past blood and mucus. Another rip, and _God_, Dean thought, the Hellhounds had been faster than this.

"Say yes, Sam. I can make it stop. Just say yes."

"No," Sam said, and he clutched Dean closer. That hurt, too, but Dean had neither the desire, nor the ability to tell his brother that. Because this hurting – this hurting was good. Sure, it was a ripping, tearing feeling, but it was just his _body_. He could take this for eternity. Hell, maybe he could take hell for eternity, this time. Knowing he'd save the damn world.

"Fuck," Lucifer hissed, and Dean's eyes focused for a moment on that word. He'd never heard the devil swear, not like that. Never heard an angel swear, for that moment. There was something sick in it, something delightfully human. Rip again, through his stomach this time, and he was certain that things were falling out of his body, now, splaying across the floor. He wondered, inanely, where Michael was in all this, where Cas was. Had Chuck foreseen this? Maybe they should have checked in with the prophet before

Oh _GOD_, now he could feel the poison of the saliva working through his system. His head was going to explode, globby bits flying across the world.

"The world will _end_, Sam. End," Lucifer spat out. His true form was peeking out through falling flesh. Flames were appearing at the edge of his fingernails. "Death and Pestilence are already here. I will let out Famine, give War free reign. Your world will end whether you say yes or not. . .might as well save your brother while you're at it."

"No," Dean said. Thought he said. Knew he didn't, because his mouth was filled with blood, now, enough blood that he couldn't talk. Tasted coppery, silvery, goldy, and every type of metal. Sam's tears were burning his face, now, as hot as the flames licking at Lucifer's shirtsleeves.

The blood must have clogged up his ears, too, because he could have sworn he heard the flap of wings. Must have been what he wanted to hear. And the click of cheap loafers. And the voice, so droll, saying "Stop."

He _really_ knew he was far gone when that word was followed by a low, sexy voice saying "Now, Lucifer. Step back."

"Hang on, Dean," Sam said. "The cavalry's alive."

Whatever _that_ meant.


	2. Chapter 2

As always, the water was screaming pain at first, which quickly became welcome. The hot water, after shockingly filling his thousands of scrapes and cuts, soothed away aches, pains. Finally got him warm again, after all the cold. Helped him gain perspective.

It could have been worse, Sam realized. It had been worse, before. Dad was fine, was going to be fine. Two bullet wounds weren't fun for anyone, and he wouldn't be walking any time soon, not with the one in the leg, but nothing had been hit. He was just unconscious from anesthesia. He'd be fine.

And Dean. . .Dean had been worse, too. Sam closed his eyes, could feel the dirt and blood washing out of his hair. He tried to forget the electric shot and the trip to the faith healer. Tried to forget that Wendigo from when he was twelve. Sure, Dean had been drooling blood on the drive to the hospital, and somehow been bleeding from the _inside out_, but he'd still been talking.

"Hey, Sammy," he'd hacked out, laid out in the back seat. Their dad had insisted on riding shot gun, laying his eldest son out in the back. It had been the last command he'd given before giving in to his own pain, passing out against the window. Sam kept twitching, uncomfortable in the driver's seat. He never drove the Impala. Never.

"What, Dean?" he'd asked tensely.

"You realize that you actually obeyed Dad back there?"

"What do you mean?" Sam's knuckles white on the wheel, eyes scanning for the hospital sign that he _knew_ was on this road. Why the hell did Dean refuse on getting a GPS for the car? They weren't pansy. . .they were _useful_.

"Well," Dean coughed again, shifted a little. Sam glanced in the rearview mirror. His brother looked like _shit_. "Dad said to shoot again. And you didn't. You haven't listened to him since your graduation."

"Shut up, Dean." There was the sign, blue and welcome, and he thought he could make out the shape of the hospital building ahead. "Save your strength."

"Yeah," Dean said, his voice mumbled now. "Wouldn't want the gorgeous nurses to go without the full Dean Winchester charm. That would be a real crime."

Sam shook his head. He turned the wheel toward the emergency room. Dean mumbled something else again, but Sam was sure that he misunderstood. Must have. DIdn't make any sense.

"Glad you had the gun. . ."

His jacket started buzzing at him, placed over the toilet seat, wrenching him out of memories. Sam almost fell out of the shower in his haste to get to it. His heart was thudding in his chest. He'd been taking a shower. . .being lazy. . .his brother was in surgery still, what kind of a brother was he?

"Hey, hello, yes?" he asked, flipping the phone open.

"Sam?"

He didn't know whether to cry in relief or frustration at the familiar voice. He settled for falling into a heap on the cold bathroom tiles. He brought his legs up to his chest, naked and shivering. It was the same position he'd taken as a child, whenever Dean had shoved him into a closet, to keep him out of the way of a hunt. He could feel the tears welling up again.

"Hey, Jess," he finally choked out. He could hear the relief in her sigh, realized that as bad of a brother he was, he must be an even worse boyfriend. When had he last called?"

"Hey," she said again. "I was worried about you. I haven't heard from you in two weeks. Not since you were in. . .Provenance, was it?"

Sam brushed as his eyes with the back of his hand. Provenance, with the hot art dealer that Dean had kept pushing him to bang. Not that she held a candle to his girlfriend back home. He was certain that if he looked at his phone, he would see a dozen missed calls. When had he gotten like this? When had he gotten so obsessed with hunting that he couldn't even check in with Jess?

"Yeah, I'm sorry," he said. Some hitch in his breath must have carried through the phone, because Jess was in full-on concern mode when she spoke again.

"Sam, what is it? What's wrong? Something's wrong. Are you okay? Is it Dean again? Oh my God, Sam, did he. . ."

"I don't know," Sam said. "He's. . .we were coming home and there was an. . .an accident. He and Dad. . ."

"Sam, where are you?"

He shouldn't tell her. He knew that, the same way that he knew he should have broken up with her after the Wendigo, when he was certain that he was getting pulled back by his puppet strings, back to his brother and father. He should have kept her more shielded, shouldn't have taken advantage of the demon-possessed plane to fly home, shouldn't have stayed there as long after the shape-shifter case, shouldn't have taken that bus trip away from Dean when he'd been so pissed off, shouldn't have called her every night. It was no kind of a life to pull a girl into. He just. . .he hadn't been able to let go. He'd kept hoping that when they'd found their father it would be enough. He could go back to Stanford, claim some kind of family emergency, still graduate, still go to law school.

Only they'd found Dad, in Chicago, and he'd kept going with Dean. Because that life. . .once it got hold of you, it didn't let go. So he should have broken up with her a long time ago. And he definitely shouldn't tell her where he was now.

But he did. He told her, and when she hung up, he knew she was already halfway to the train station. Knew she was coming for him.

He pulled himself off the floor, shrugged on the shirt the hospital had given him. It was too small, of course, and pulled uncomfortably across his chest. The pants, fit, though, and when he glanced in the mirror his own clear reflection looked back. Sure, the eye was still swollen, and slivers and gashes broke up the face, but it looked like him, again.

As he headed back across the street to wait for his family to wake up, he began planning what to tell Jess when she arrived.

* * * * *

Sam was ready to say yes. He was so ready. He was tired of watching his big brother die and suffer, was tired of all this fighting that seemed to be without point or purpose. Lucifer was right. The world was ending. And if him agreeing to be a vessel could help just one person out. . .wasn't that right? It wasn't selfish?

Dean kept sputtering and spitting out blood, and staying alive. He kept blinking, owl-like, pupils dilating, big and small, big and small, and Sam knew that his brother couldn't focus on anything. Small noises kept issuing from his mouth, little moans that Sam was somehow certain were the word "no", repeated over and over again.

The amount of blood. . .Dean should be dead. Sam could _see_, his insides, intestine rolling over each other. He could _see_ the heartbeat slowing down, could feel the warm blood cooling across his lap. Dean should be dead already. Should be.

"Stop."

The voice held a quiet command, and Sam bit his lip. Castiel had arrived, finally, now that it was too late. Not that it mattered, much. Castiel wasn't much more powerful than a regular human, at this point. The confidence in that voice, though. . .Sam couldn't hear any of the anxiety that Castiel had exhibited when they'd told him about their half-assed plan. He sounded like he knew what he was dong.

"Now, Lucifer. Step back."

The voice was low, but definitively feminine. Sam leaned down, whispered in his brother's ear,

"Hang on, Dean. The cavalry's arrived."

Dean shuddered at that. Sam clutched him a little closer. He shouldn't. . .it probably hurt Dean more, but he needed it, now. Sam knew he was being greedy, but he needed to _feel_ his brother. He needed that, to know he was still alive, because looking at Dean. . .

Amazingly, Lucifer stood up, backed away. Fresh air replaced putrid stench. Sam jerked his gaze away from his dying brother just in time to see a look of welcome spread across the devil's face, another chunk of skin slowly detach and fall from his vessel's nose. A woman entered the periphery of Sam's vision. She was pale, deathly pale, and a slow trickle of blood ran down her nose. Her fingernails shone a little, like some inner light was trying to escape.

"Excuse me, Samuel," she said. "I would like to see Dean."

Sam tried to back away, dragging his brother's limp body with him. Michael. It had to be Michael.

"He says no," Sam said desperately. "He's always going to say no."

"nnnnnn" Dean gurgled, as though in agreement. Though, Sam realized, it might have just been a pathetic attempt to breathe.

"Sam," Castiel stepped forward, and though his shoulders were confident,his eyes were trained on Dean's face, and looked horribly, impossibly sad. "He is just trying to help. You can trust him. For now."

It was the "for now" that allowed Sam to trust the angel, that allowed him to uncurl his body from his brother. Michael approached, knelt down, and pressed a finger to Dean's forehead. A moment later Dean jerked up, gasping.

"Michael, you son of a bitch," he gasped. He paused a moment, and a slow grin crossed his face. "You look a lot better this time around."

"That is _not_ amusing," Michael said. The angel stood, turned to face Lucifer.

"It is time," Michael said.

"Finally," Lucifer said, a note of resignation in his face. Sam crept forward, grabbed his brother's hand. Sure, it was a chick flick moment, but if anything deserved one, it was the meeting of an archangel and the devil. Castiel joined them on the floor. He pulled something from around his neck, pressed it into Dean's hand.

It was a little sick to look at, the almost-melting Lucifer, and the glowing, beautiful woman. Sam was relatively certain that given a day, hell, maybe just a few hours, that glowing skin would start to flake, the light take over the entire figure. He was finally beginning to see why the angels were so obsessed over finding their correct vessel. Beside him, Castiel dropped one finger to Dean's hair. His face twisted.

"Dean, I. . ." the angel said.

"Not now, Cas," Dean hissed, his attention entirely focused on the two angels now standing head to head. Obedient as ever, Cas stopped talking.

In unison, as though with one mind, Lucifer and Michael turned around, spat out "Sam! Dean! Now!"

The power in his name grabbed Sam, punched him hard in the stomach, took away his breath, and he found himself suddenly standing, still grasping desperately at his brother's hand. His mouth was opening, a fish. The word was pushing its way forward. No, he thought desperately, no, this wasn't right, it wasn't fair. He could still remember that time, not so very long ago, when the demon had possessed him, driving him forward, forcing him to tie up Jo, to shoot his own brother, to threaten Bobby. . .he suddenly felt it again, that ache of something else forcing its way in, shoving him aside. You need permission, he thought weakly, but it wasn't his thoughts that mattered, only his actions, and under the combined will of the archangels, his lips were forming the word yes.

"No!" It was not Sam who spoke the word of denial, not Dean. It was Castiel, standing and striding in front of them. Sam still couldn't speak, still couldn't disobey the force of the archangels.

"Oh, for Christ's sake," Lucifer rolled his eyes, and with the same gesture he'd used only moments before, flung Castiel backwards, into the very same wall that had already started to crumble under Dean's weight.

"Cas!" Dean's yell pulled Sam back. He grabbed the knife from the back of his jeans at the same moment that Dean dove for the discarded Colt.

"Are they serious?" Michael asked incredulously.

"Regrettably so," Lucifer said.

"How many times have you been shot by that thing?"

"Twice."

"About to be three, numbnuts," Dean said, raising the gun. Sam moved to his brother's right side. They stood, shoulder to shoulder.

"It's almost embarrassing," Michael said.

"Almost?" Lucifer shook his head. "It's pathetic."

Sam didn't mean to lower the knife, but he did. It was just so. . .weird. The two mortal enemies, just standing there, _mocking_ him and his brother. And something that hadn't quite made sense suddenly clicked in his head.

"Why don't you two just Apocalypse Now?" Dean asked, apparently having the same thought as Sam.

"Excuse me?" Lucifer cocked his head. Dean licked his lips.

"I mean. . .you're both here. In the same place. In vessels. What do you need us for? Why can't you just have your battle right here, right now?"

"Because, that would break the rules," Lucifer said with a sigh.

"It is not our Father's will," Michael said. "I already told you, Dean. There is no free will. There is only God's will."

"Thy kingdom come, thy will be done," Sam whispered. Dean turned to glance at him, eyes big and green and confused.

"Sam?" a moment later, "Dammit!" Something dropped from Dean's hand, landed on the ground with a tinny clack. The amulet, the one he'd given his brother, the one Dean had always worn until giving it to Castiel.

"What?"

"I don't know. . ." Dean shook his head. "It just got hot. Burned."

"He's coming."

All four of them, two angelic, two human, turned to look at the crumpled angel in the corner. He looked more pathetic than usual, wrinkled trenchcoat, crooked tie, rumpled hair, curled up in a corner. But the look on his face was one of ecstasy. "God is coming!"


	3. Chapter 3

The moment he was awake he was sitting up. He'd been deep asleep. . .out of it. . .and the hunter in him couldn't stand for that. He'd started ripping off wires and blankets the moment he'd woken up, but as the sleep and drugs wore off, he was able to think more clearly.

A hospital. He recognized the paper gown, the cheap blankets, the stucco ceiling. A hospital. A private room. Lifted his right arm, gasped at the pain, dropped it down. What had happened, what. . .

All that he remembered was being dragged into a dark alley, and then. . .darkness. . .and then. . .John Winchester frowned. . .then the sight of Dean in front of him, too pale. A blood-soaked torso, and rivulets running from his mouth. Terrified green eyes – Mary's eyes. . .

"Daddy, please. . ."

And then Mary's eyes again, this time sighting down the colt.

The Impala, seats stained with blood.

Dean laid out in the back.

Blood everywhere.

Sam driving.

"Dean!" John screamed. Was his son alive? Because if he wasn't. . .if he wasn't. . ."Dean!"

It wasn't his son who answered, of course. It was an older man, graying hair, a paunchy gut. "Sir, calm down, sir, Mr. Winchester, lie down."

So he did. Because John Winchester didn't panic and right now, laid up in a hospital bed, he knew that his best chance at finding his boys was talking to this doctor.

"Sorry," John said, while the doctor busied himself looking at charts and checking machines. "I just woke up. Panicked. Do you know. . .my sons, do you know. . ."

"Yes, of course," the doctor coughed. "The tall one. . .the big one. . ."

"Sam," John supplied.

"Yes, he's perfectly fine. Sent him off to shower and eat something. I'm sure he'll be back soon. And the other one just came out of surgery a moment ago."

"And he. . ." John swallowed a lump in his throat. That blood. . .so much blood. . ."Is he. . ."

"I don't know," the doctor sighed. "Like I said, he's just come out, and he's in the ICU. I'm sure one his doctor's will be by soon."

"Can I. . ." John couldn't seemed to breathe right. Saliva kept getting stuck in his throat, lodging up just when he needed to speak. "Can I see him?"

"You're not out of danger yourself, Mr. Winchester," the doctor said sternly. "You'll need some physical therapy for that shoulder and leg. And the police still need to talk to you."

Of course. John closed his eyes. The damn police. Gun shot wounds had to be reported, he knew that. Damn it. . .why couldn't Sammy have just left him in the hotel? Would have been less questions with just Dean brought in.

"Yes, of course," he said gruffly. He'd have to pretend to remember nothing. Some kind of trauma-caused amnesia. He had no idea what Sam had told the police already. . .couldn't corroborate a story he knew nothing about. He told the doctor to send the police in, and to definitely get someone down to give him an update on his son.

He's fidgety in the bed, waiting for something. . .anything. He's not used to hospitals. Sure, he's used to visiting them. . .sadly, used to seeing his sons in them, or his hunting buddies, but he's rarely been in one himself. Wouldn't be here, now, if it had been up to him. He could handle bullet wounds. Could have patched himself up. Must have been the demon possession, making him weak enough to pass out like that.

The door opened, and he straightened up, reworking the correct expressions, the correct tone to use when telling the police that he couldn't remember anything. But it wasn't the police who walked in the door – it was his son, his baby boy, bruised and cut, but with a smile on his face.

"Dad!" Sam said, rushing over. "Hey! You're awake."

"Yeah, Sammy, I'm up," John said, awkwardly patting his boy on the back. His heart swelled a little, another snippet coming back to him. The shot into the leg, falling to the ground, and still feeling that. . .that _thing_ inside of him. Yelling at his son to shoot him again, to end it.

"Don't you do it, Sam!"

Dean's cry, weak and pathetic. Thank God he wasn't holding the gun. Because as John had stared up at his son, he'd seen the strength there, the conviction. Sam could do what was needed. Sam would do what was _right_.

"Do you know. . ."

"They won't let anyone in," Sam said, settling into the chair at John's side. "He came out of surgery. He's still alive. But. . .he's not breathing on his own. . .and. . .I don't know, Dad. He's got blood loss, and there's something wrong with his liver and kidneys. It doesn't. . .it doesn't look good."

John closed his eyes, refused to let the tear fall. "Okay," he says finally. Nothing he can do to help his boy. Except protect him, as well as he's always known how. "Sam. Where's the Colt?"

"What?" Sam stared at his father. "Your son is _dying_, and you want to know about the Colt?"

"What do you want me to do?" John asked, guilt shooting through him. Because Sam was right, dammit, Sam was always right, and he should be pacing, worrying about Dean, fretting and pulling out his hair, not asking about a gun, but he doesn't _know_ how to be a father, doesn't know how to pace and do nothing. At least with the gun he can protect them against. . .against. . .

Against what? The Yellow-Eyed Demon is dead. Gone. He felt it die, felt it wrenched out of his body, the crackling as it died. He'd felt that flash of anger that Sam had killed it, that a boy who didn't even remember Mary had stolen his revenge. But it was gone. They didn't need the Colt. They didn't need to hunt anymore. Sam could go back to Stanford and Dean could. . .Dean could. . .

"You're right," John said softly. "Forget about the gun."

* * * * *

Castiel stood, his entire body glowing, because he could feel His presence drawing near. He smiled triumphantly at Lucifer and Michael's looks of disbelief. He stumbled a little, his vessel exhausted and shaky. Dean stepped forward, threw one of his arms across his shoulders.

"Cas?" he asked, his voice pitched low. The door opened, and Castiels' mouth stretched into the widest grin of his life.

"What's the hold-up?"

Suddenly the strong shoulders that had been holding him up lost their strength. Confused, Castiel grabbed Dean by the back of the jacket, supported the hunter. Dean's freckles were standing out in bright contrast to the pallor of his skin. Strange, Castiel thought. He looked as though he'd seen a ghost. Or, in the strange world that his charge lived in, he looked as though he'd seen. . .a unicorn.

"D-Dad?" Sam whispered behind them, and Castiel felt another surge of warmth. He'd never expected the Winchester to recognize their true Father. Was certain that even standing in front of God, they would still continue in their foolish, unfounded disbelief.

"Oh, you like my vessel?" God smiled, waved down at the body He was currently inhabiting. "I'm not constrained to living vessels, of course. I found this one both ironic and striking."

"Your. . .your vessel?" Sam's voice sounded weak. Castiel wondered if maybe he should lower Dean to the ground, and go attend to the other Winchester. But Dean was shaking, and Castiel knew that, duty-bound or not, he could not abandon this man for whom he had sacrificed so much. He glanced back at his Father again, wondering why the Winchesters were having such difficulty. The vessel didn't seem like anything extraordinary. It was middle-aged, weather-worn, hair dark but graying, thick stubble, beetle brows. It was a handsome vessel, but a shame, really, that God could not show them His true form.

"Yes. If you saw my true form your eyes would be burned out," God said. "We can't have that. It would be difficult for my sons to wage their final battle without any eyes."

"Wait a second. . ." Dean shook his head. "You. . .you _want_ this battle."

Castiel's heart suddenly tripped in his chest. He listened between the lines, dimmed out the glory of his Father and. . .and he'd been wrong. God hadn't come to show the other angels the error of their ways.

"Well. . .no," God shook His head. "It's just that there are rules, you see. This world has fallen into decay, and must be saved. But there are rules to saying it."

"I don't understand," Dean said, shaking his head. "Why would you. . .what. . .why. . ." Castiel's heard twisted a little. He'd never heard the hunter sounded so lost. He glanced down at the body he grasped in his hand. He'd memorized every eyelash months ago, but there were little changes, even now. An extra freckle, an extra crease around the mouth. A little scar above one eyebrow. It was one of the thing that fascinated him about humans – their constant ability to _change_.

"Look," God waved His hand, and suddenly they were out of the dying city, in an opulet room. Not the same as the one Castiel's brothers had used to trap Dean, but one that was very similar. "When Father wanted to create mankind, the angels had to war, betray each other, brother against brother. When he wanted to give mankind free will, he had to let Eve betray Adam. When mankind needed to grow and expand, Cain had to betray Abel. And then when things really got shitty, the last time Lucifer got free, I had to be killed by my own brothers. It's a cycle. It's the way Father set things up."

Castiel's breath caught. Father? But that meant. . .

"Jesus Christ," breath whistled out Sam's teeth. God smiled.

"In the flesh," God chortled. "Or rather. . .in your father's flesh."

"See, it's like we've been trying to tell you," Michael said irritably. "This has to happen. To save mankind, you two have to fight."

"Brother against brother," Lucifer agreed. "Michael against me. Sam against Dean."

"No," Castiel felt pressure on his back. A moment later Dean was standing upright again, back ramrod straight. Castiel felt a little surge of pride. That was _his_ human standing up to the angels. And though he didn't like the idea of Dean standing up to the Son, he was a little proud of that, too. "No, we still won't do it. There has to be another way."

"There is no other way," God said irritably.

"I'm sorry," Michael was more patient. "Those are the rules."

"Then what is the point in free will?" Dean asked desperately. "Why give us free will only to take it away?"

"Oh, you're confused," God said. "You don't have free will, Dean."

"We couldn't risk it," Lucifer explained. "You see, in order for the betrayal to work, for the war against brothers to work, we needed certain pieces in place."

"You, specifically," Michael said. "To be my vessel, you had to be perfect. The perfect little soldier. Used to following orders. TO following someone _elses_ will."

"No," Dean whispered, and Castiel was surprised to hear himself whispering it, too. This wasn't the way that it was supposed to work out. God was supposed to end the war, restore the world, restore the brothers. God was supposed to _heal_.

He understood his position. All of the angels did. They were soldiers. They had no will. They protected and served firstly the humans on earth, and then their Heavenly father. They did as they were told. They had no other choice.

But the humans. . .the humans had souls. The humans housed good and evil, and it was the choice between them that shaped their destiny. It wasn't right . . .it wasn't God's _plan_. . .for even one of them to lose that.

But he could see that Michael was right. That the demons had intervened when Dean was four years old, had placed Sam in his arms, and had taken away his will. It had been replaced with John Winchester. And then, when he'd started thinking on his own, moving on his own, they'd forced the deal. And he was theirs again, under control again. Lucifer had dragged him to hell. The angels had pulled him out, fed him full of ideas of "God's design". Shown him futures that didn't exist, told him untruths and lies. He'd never made a choice on his own. Everything had been decided for him.

"So if we don't have free will, why even tell us?" Sam asked. "Just do what you have to do."

The angels and God shared anguished looks. "Because. . ." Lucifer said. "You, Sam, do have free will. We need you to say yes."

"And you will," Michael said. "Because you can weigh good and evil. Because you know that by this small evil to your brother, that by this small betrayal, you can save the human race. You can weigh the decision and make the correct one."

Sam shook his head, his eyes wild.

"It can't come down to me. . .you can't. . ."

Dean was frozen in Castiel's arms. A tear welled up in the angel's eyes. He was so sorry. He hadn' t known. . .in that moment his faith shattered. The God that he'd been searching for was a farce. It was more games, more charades, more politics. This wasn't pure good. This was as twisted as hell, as twisted as the humans he'd been guarding for centuries.

"I am so sorry, Dean," he whispered.


	4. Chapter 4

**AN: A little shorter this time, my apologies. The next chapter is a doozy, though, so this is just kind of the in-between filler.**

**I'd also like to add. . .no, I don't think this is how the Apocalypse will actually happen. Though it would be kind of neat. See if you can figure out how the parallel stories tie in to one another: I'll give a cookie to anyone who gets it right! Most of our main characters have shown up by now. . .trying to figure out how I can get Bobby and Ellen in. . .they're pretty much my favorites, but they are just stubbornly trapped in their respective junkyard/bar. Grrr. . .**

**Poor Sam and Dean. . .they're so angsty. Luckily they've got Jess to be a halfway normal person!!!! (: **

**Reviews are always loved and appreciated. Thanks you to those of you who have reviewed to this point. It really does mean a lot!**

Jess wasn't stupid. Though that was her friends' new favorite word for her. Stupid. Stupid for hanging around Stanford after graduation, waiting for Sam to come back. Stupid for staying with him when he was on the road more often that not, probably screwing girls across the country. Stupid for calling him every night, whether he answered or not. Stupid for lighting up when he came home. And, no doubt, stupid for driving three hundred miles just because he'd sounded scared.

But she knew things, somehow, things that nobody else knew. Like she knew, _knew_, she had died. She could remember it. Flames. She'd died in a fire. She _knew_, and the fact that she was still alive and whole didn't change that.

She knew that Sam and his brother were doing something big, something important. She knew that when she saw him, and he was bruised, and limping, bleeding and dirty, that it wasn't because he'd become a homeless degenerate, or gotten into a fight. She knew it was something bigger.

She was pretty certain that he was hunting the thing that killed her.

So Jess knew she wasn't stupid. Which was why, when she saw the little girl, standing at the side of the road, one finger sticking out, and she felt like she should stop, she did. It's stupid to pick up hitchhikers. That's what anyone would say. Stupid. She did it anyway.

"Thank you," the girl said, sitting in the front seat. She didn't look like a hitchhiker, Jess thought critically. Not dressed in that plain, almost Amish dress. Not without any luggage, not even a backpack. Blue eyes met hers.

"My name is Cassidy," the girl said.

"I'm Jess."

"We are going to the same place," Cassidy said confidently. Jess smiled, pretty sure that the strange little hitchhiker had no idea where she was going.

"Where's that?"

"To find the Winchesters."

That should have done something to Jess, should have set off alarm bells. But somehow it felt. . .right, like puzzle pieces fitting together. Like the gun that she'd found under Sam's bed that second night he'd left, the one she'd kept with her. Like the small salt shaker she kept in her right pocket, or the vial of holy oil she wore around her neck.

"This feels right, doesn't it?" Cassidy said. Jess smiled.

* * * * *

"This isn't right," Castiel said desperately. Sam couldn't agree more. The only thing that felt right in the whole messed up situation was the angels admitting that he had free will. Which he fully intended to use. While the angels had been monologuing at one another (the most popular pastime for villains, as Dean had remarked on numerous occasions), he'd snuck up on them. He still had the knife, even if Dean had dropped the gun.

Seeing his father standing in front of them had been a shock, no doubt about it. But they'd seen stranger things, and the creature certainly hadn't acted like a father. Hadn't acted like a Savior, either, which is what had decided Sam. He was just acting like another angel dick.

He lunged forward, plunged the knife into Michael's chest. Because he was closer, and because he was threatening Dean. Stepped back. But Michael only grinned in amusement, and pulled the knife out.

"You can't kill them with the knife," Castiel said. "Or the Colt. You humans can't kill us at all."

Sam nodded. That's what he'd thought, what he'd assumed, but he'd still had to try.

"Dean," he said, choking the word out. His brother turned to look at him, lost. He was going to say yes. Sam could see it. Not because he lacked free will – the angels had lied about that, Sam was certain. There was no way that his brother – his big brother who had done everything, sacrificed everything, given _everything_, didn't have free will. There was no way.

He was going to say yes because he was giving up. And Sam couldn't blame him.

Sam had started hunting when he was twelve years old. Dean had started at four.

Sam had quit for four years, headed to Stanford. Dean had stayed.

Sam had spent four months without his brother, in hell. Dean had spent forty years.

Sam had been fighting demons for a total of nine years. Dean had been fighting for sixty.

Anybody would say yes at that point. Any sane person would say yes, when the world was ending, and God, dressed in his father's meat suit, stood in front of him and said that hewere nothing. When an angel was crying on his shoulder, and his own brother had betrayed and hurt him worse than anything else. But Sam knew, _knew_ that saying yes would destroy his brother more certainly than Hell.

He'd let Dean down his entire life. He'd allowed Dean to martyr and sacrifice himself. Now it was his turn.

He reached down, grabbed the knife, and plunged it into his own chest.

* * * * *

Most of the time, the plan went to hell. Dean was fully aware of this, and it was half of the reason that he hadn't bothered filling in their plans to confront Lucifer. Something always happened to mess it up, to throw a cog out of place. Bu there was always some way to keep fighting. There was always one more punch to be thrown, one more witty rejoinder to throw out in the face of whatever baddy he and Sam were facing.

He'd lost a lot, in his years in Hell. He'd lost what little confidence he'd ever had in himself. He'd lost his belief in redemption. He'd lost the steady determination that was Dean Winchester. But then a blue-eyed angel had reached down and pulled him out, and he'd discovered, hell, maybe everything hadn't been lost. It had just been misplaced.

And he'd been thrown into the biggest battle of his life. And sure, there had been some nasty bumps along the way. He and Sam had been torn apart, thrown back together, ripped to shreds and stuck in place with duct tape and glue. But they'd kept fighting. They'd never given up. And no matter how many times they'd been told that it was impossible, they'd never given up.

He had a GED and give'em hell attitude, and he was going to keep fighting.

They were an ex-blood junkie, a high school drop-out with six dollars to his name, and Mr. Comatose, but they were going to keep fighting.

And now, being held in this prison of silks and satins he was being told that he had no free will. His father, or at least his father's body, was staring at him, telling him that he had no choice.

Well, fuck that. The Apocalypse was supposed to be explosions and fighting and guns blazing. He and Sam were supposed to go out, Butch Cassidy and Sundance. And sure, they were going to die, but they sure as hell weren't going to give up in some pretty-boy angel mansion.

"This isn't right," Castiel choked out, and Dean tightened his grip on the angel. Of the three of them, he was pretty sure that Cas was the weakest. Between losing the angel mojo and finding out that his Heavenly Father was more of a Heavenly Douche, he sure couldn't be breathing too easily at the moment.

An abrupt movement caught his eye, as Sam lunged at Michael, knife clenched in his fish. Oh, Sam, Dean would have sighed, if he'd had the time. The knife was meant to kill demons, not angels. They both knew it wouldn't work. They both _had_ to know it wouldn't work.

Bright red blossomed on the blouse of the beautiful woman that Michael currently inhabited. It disappeared as quickly as it had come, but Dean noted that her hair had turned a shade whiter, her eyes a tad bit more opaque. She was losing Michael, or he was losing her, whichever way it worked.

Sam turned to look at him, at that moment, and Dean knew that he had to say something. Because Sam looked fucking _haunted_, and was saying his name. Only it was funny. . .because Michael was staring at him in the strangest way, and Cas was beginning to hitch a bit beneath his hand. So he was kind of busy, trying to think, trying to figure a way out of this twisted situation.

He was still staring, still confused, when his brother wretched the knife back out of Michael's vessel, and . . .and. . .

"No. . ." the word came out broken, not strong, as Dean watched his brother stab that same knife into his own chest.


	5. Chapter 5

**_AN: Winding down, now. Thanks for the reviews, particularly you, mikesh, who has been so loyal!_**

**_Just one more chapter and an epilogue. Hopefully to be churned out by the end of the weekend. And then. . .gasp. . .a five week hiatus! Oh, whatever will I do without the beautiful Winchesters? Sigh. . .stupid winter hiatus. . ._**

If this was Heaven, it wasn't nearly as beautiful as Sam had always assumed. And if it was Hell, it wasn't anywhere near as horrible as Dean had always said. Overall, Sam was rather disappointed by the Afterlife. It seemed an awful lot like real life.

Including, he noted with some disgust, a bevy of angels and an anguished brother. Including a half-assed God who felt the need to play by _rules. _Although. . .well, hey, that was interesting. Sam stared at a body laid out on he ground, huge, with a pool of blood rapidly spreading around. The corpse was absolutely _huge_. Even curled up on the ground, limp and lifeless, its pure size dominated the room. The hair was long, greasy and. . .hey, wait a minute. Was that _him_?

"You see," Sam tore his eyes away from his own body at the ecstasy of words. It was Castiel, who seemed to have gotten strength back. He had released his hold on Dean, was standing upright and strong. His blue eyes were shining. "You see? You see, Dean? Free will. It still exists."

"Not for me," Dean said. He reached out, touched Sam's wrist. Sam cocked his head. He saw his brother touch him, but he couldn't _feel_ it. Couldn't feel anything. Dean's face was ravaged, a weathermap of creases and wrinkles, tore apart. Michael, Lucifer, and God had huddled together, leaving the Winchesters and their renegade angel on the ground. "What now, Cas? They can't have their Apocalypse if he's dead." Dean sniffled. "What am I supposed to do now?"

And damn, he sounded so broken. Sam wanted to grab his brother, wrap him up in a huge hug, tell him to go on. Now Dean was free, right? No need to be a vessel, when the brotherly showdown couldn't happen. He could find a nice girl, settle down. Raise a family. Have that life he'd wanted. Have a real family again. Life was set right again, back to the way it should have been. Sam dead, Dean alive.

But Dean just knelt and allowed fat, sad tears trickle down his face. And the angels kept talking in hushed whispers. And this was still all wrong, Sam realized.

"Dean, listen to me," Castiel grabbed Dean's shoulders. "You can not give up. Do you have me? You. Can. Not. Give. Up. God is still out there, and he will come. He is coming."

"Cas, get a grip," Dean said. "He's here, remember? He's over in that corner. He came, and he didn't fix anything. Nothing! Your faith. . .all of it. . .it's a load of shit! Our whole lives have been shit!"

Sam was glad to see his brother shouting. Because angry Dean he understood. Angry Dean was familiar. Angry Dean got things done.

And, sure enough, Dean wretched the knife out of his brothers' chest, and held it over his own. "I have to end this," he said. "It's still not over. Michael still wants me, Cas. I have to end this."

But then Castiel was moving, faster than Sam had ever seen, shoved the knife out of Dean's hand, pushed him to the ground. "No," he hissed, breath whistling out of his nose. They were close enough to kiss, Sam saw. "You don't get to do that," Castiel said. "You don't get to negate Sam's sacrifice."

"What do you want from me, Cas? What do you want?"

"As long as you live, Michael's true vessel is you," Castiel said. "As long as you live, there can be no Apocalypse. You die, and they'll find another pair of brothers. You die and this starts all over again."

Dean closed his eyes ,lips trembling. "It's too much," he said, trembling. Castiel frowned. Sam leaned in closer. Something was coming. Something was coming, and it was big, and it was powerful. He felt a sudden screaming in his chest, looked down, saw bright red blossoming. He wanted to scream, but he had no air. He was dead, was gone.

And then he was two places at once. He was looking down on himself and up on himself. He tried to move, but couldn't. The pain was too much. He coughed, once, felt blood welling up in his throat.

No. . .he thought. Not again. He couldn't be alive again. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair! He had died. . .he had fixed things. . .he was. . .another cough. The pressure was still building in his head, still that feeling of something coming. . .

"Get off me, Cas. Let me end this. Let me end this!"

Sam wanted to call out to his brother, to tell Dean that somehow, impossibly, he was back to being alive again. Marionettes, he thought distantly. That was all that they were. Marionettes, with strings attached to. . .to something more powerful than anything they'd fought before. Something that was more powerful than life, more powerful than death, more powerful than angels or demons, or even freaking Jesus Christ. How on earth were they supposed to hunt something like that?

How was he supposed to hunt anything when it felt like his chest was being slowly torn apart?

When it felt like something what trying to force its way into his head, but it was too small. . .

"I renounce Heaven." Cas' voice. Sam shuddered. It hurt. He couldn't contain all of the pain. His eyes suddenly shot open, but he couldn't see anything. Gone was the tableau, the broken body and mourning brother, the little coven of angles. Gone was the stucco ceiling. It was just white, everything pure white. But he could sense, it somehow. He knew the moment that Michael and Lucifer turned, in sync, perfectly attuned to one another. He sensed them gripping the shirts of the vessels, drawing closer.

He'd killed himself. He had free wile.

He sensed God fall to his knees, holding his vessel's body together in a tight hug. He saw Him glow, as if he could no longer contain his own power, his own Light.

"I renounce the heavenly hosts."

He saw Dean grab Castiel by the shoulders, saw the angel grab his brother's head. He coughed, thick blood spittle. Said "Dean. . ." He saw the door splinter into a thousand little shards.

Castiel was denying his faith. _He _ had free will.

"No. . ." Sam wasn't sure if it was him speaking again, or his brother. His broken brother, who had finally stopped fighting. . .stopped fighting.

Dean had stopped fighting. Dean, the perfect soldier, had stopped fighting.

_He_ had free will.

"I renounce God."

Sam still couldn't see. He couldn't see the angel's lips touch his brother's. He couldn't see something so bright that it burned. He couldn't see Michael and Lucifer disappear. He couldn't see his own body buck, light spilling out, mirror the same light spilling out of his father's body.

What Sam did see was Heaven.

* * * * *

They entered Dean's room together. John Winchester went in first, pushed in the chair by his son. Jess and Cassidy followed behind, silent in the family's tragedy. This wasn't there place, and they knew it, but they were tied together by the marionette strings.

"God, this is so horrible," Jess said, tears welling up in her eyes. She'd been shocked when she'd first seen Sam, the swollen face and cracked lips. She'd cried when he'd told her about shooting his father. She'd held him, kissed him, promised not to go anywhere. But this was the worst of all, handsome, cocky Dean, laid up in a hotel room, tubes in his mouth and his arms, little blipping machines the only sign that he was still alive.

"God is not horrible," Cassidy said solemnly.

"Hey, Dean," Sam left his father, and went to kneel down by his brother's side. He reached out one hand, clasped his brothers. They fit together perfectly. "You've got to wake up, Dean. You've got to be okay."

John Winchester didn't know what to say. Jess held back tears. Cassidy just trained her blue, blue eyes on the unconscious body.

"Dean, listen. You're the strongest person I know," Sam was crying now, and Jess completely lost it. "You're a fighter, Dean. You've just got to fight this one last one. We got the demon, Dean. It's over. We don't have to hunt anymore, we don't have to. . .you just have to get better. And everything will be okay."

Hannah watched the sad scene from just outside. It wasn't anything they hadn't seen before. It wasn't the first family to come in banged up, wasn't the first midnight vigil. But it reminded her of the fire a few months before. When the family had been fine, and they'd been trying to fix up the firefighters. She'd been honored to work that forty hour shift, regardless of the back problems and pained feets. She'd been healing heroes.

And these guys. . .they probably weren't heroes. Sure, the old guy had the gun shot wounds, but the young one seemed to have just gone through some kind of organ failure. Nothing heroic. And the other one looked like he'd been in a bar fight. They'd said they'd been out hunting, the gun shots had been a mistake. So not heroes.

The words were nothing new. The living telling the dying to fight. . .as if fighting were somehow heroic. As though clinging to life were a fight, instead of an instinct. They were romantic words, not heroic ones. Staying alive was an obligation, not a fight. So the words, the damaged bodies, the tears. . .they were the modern day staples of a family visiting the ICU. Nothing special. Not the sign of heroes.

Yet, watching the boys cling to each other, and watching the father sitting so stoicly in the wheelchair she still felt like somehow, _somehow_ that's what she was seeing.


	6. Chapter 6

**AN: Final regular chapter! Just the epilogue to follow (well, and. . .actually. . .the epilogue-epilogue (: )**

**Thanks to my. . .one reviewer, really. Appreciate it! Enjoy!**

Dean couldn't see anything. Or maybe there just wasn't anything to see. It was just white, or not-white. Not-white.

_I forgive you_.

Forgive me for what? Dean asked. I didn't do anything wrong. But even as he said it, he felt that wrongness in his body. What hadn't he done wrong? He'd failed Sammy. . .hadn't managed to keep him safe. He thought of all the lives he'd lost on hunts. Thought of his own deal with the Crossroads Demons, they people he'd tortured in hell. He'd broken the first seal. He'd caused the Apocalypse. He'd screwed more girls than he could remember, including a freakin' Angel of God. He'd sworn and boozed and never gone to church.

_I forgive you_.

Warmth suffused him, but was quickly washed away by the cold, bitter iron taste of guilt. Their own mother and father, dead because he couldn't save them. Madison, who he'd let his own brother shoot, tear-stained face and all. His father, who had gone to Hell, literally, to save his sorry ass. The faith healer.

_I forgive you_.

Jo and Ellen, dead because of him. Pastor Jim, dead. Caleb, dead.

_I forgive you_.

Bobby was paralyzed, once again for him. Castiel had fallen, had been cast out of heaven. And now even Sam. . .even Sam was gone. The warmth crept back, was still kept out.

_I forgive you_.

Well, that's just great for you. Doesn't mean I forgive myself.

_Your hand was forced. I forgive you_.

He had nothing left, no ammunition to fight against the warmth. So he let it in. For the first time in 26 years, Dean Winchester stopped fighting. He gave in. The warmth blossomed in his chest, spread through his limbs. The not-white became a little brighter. He could hear, so faint it was barely there, the familiar guitar riffs of Metallica. Barely there, but still comforting.

Thank you.

_You have been a good son. You have done all that was asked of you, and then some_.

Dean didn't know what to say to that. Didn't know what he could say.

Who are you? Who the hell are you?

There was no answer to that, and Dean knew that he didn't need one. He could smell it now, warm and buttery. Hints of cinnamon, nutmeg. Freshly baked pie.

_Forgive my children. Forgive my Son. They knew not what they did. They were only following orders_.

Yeah, about those orders. What the hell? The only way to fix the world is through bloodshed? Through pain? What kind of God are you?

_I have no rules. Love has no rules, knows no boundaries. Sometimes my children forget that. Sometimes they read too much of the history, and too little of the Word_.

Like how he had always fixated on his fathers rules, his father's orders. Watch out for Sammy. It's your job. It's your responsibility.

But hadn't Dad always returned with food? Hadn't he stayed home for three days when Sam had the chicken pox, when Dean had gone to school?

Hadn't Dad been the one to rescue Sam from the shtriga?

Hadn't Dad rescued them from the black dogs?

Maybe what Dad had been saying wasn't that it was a job. . .that it was family. That it's how things worked. Maybe he'd never been asked to be a soldier. He'd just assumed that.

The warm feeling became stronger, the not-light brighter, the smell of pie sweeter, the music louder, and now he could feel, beneath him, the cool hum of leather seats inside a classic car.

_I have been away too long. I have been looking over my other children, have forgotten you, forsaken you. I ask, now, that you forgive me._

For some reason Dean thought of Adam. Thought of that time he'd been laid up in the hospital for three months, when Dad had disappeared and come back when he'd finally been released. How he'd lost weight and strength, but his Dad had appeared better than he'd seen him in years. He thought he knew, now, where his father had been. He might have even known then. He'd still forgiven him. Because he was family.

_I have gathered my angels back to Heaven. They are back in their home. I will return you to yours_.

A shift of panic, stealing away the warmth at that. All of the angels?

Why bother? Dean asked. I have nothing. I'm thirty-three years old. I feel like I'm seventy. My brother is dead, my mom is dead, my dad is dead. My only friend is an angel, who according to you is now trapped back in Heaven with his dick brothers. All I know is hunting. It's all I can do. But . . .I can't. I can't even do that anymore. I'm too tired. Can't I just stay here? Can't it just be over?

God, was that his own voice? Whining? Broken? He was behaving like a prissy little girl. .

_What have I done to you, my son. . ._

There was such sorrow in that voice, and for a moment Dean thought he saw his father's eyes. But of course not. His dad was dead. Gone. But there was a warmth to the not-white, now. A kindness. Arms folding around him, clutching him close, and he sank into them, a flash of blonde hair, blue eyes, a white nightgown. . .and then it was gone, replaced with the leather seats.

It was nice, here. It was comfortable. Sure, maybe a little lonely, but Dean had always expected to end up alone. It was better than he thought. Maybe God had a decent set-up after all.

_I cannot give you everything back. It would take away all that you have worked for. But I will give you back what I can._

Don't, Dean thought. Don't, begging now, just let me stay. . .but what good was his voice up here? When had he ever gotten what he'd wanted?

* * * * *

Huh, Sam thought. Well. This version of Heaven was better than the last one. There was a silence here, a peacefulness that he'd never been able to find in life. Everything was. . .off-color, somehow. That color that existed between black and white, between light and darkness. He'd like to study this color, this not-color, knew there wasn't enough time in all the world.

The musky smell of books, and a touch of lilac.

The feel of hardwood beneath him, and he wondered if he wasn't sitting in court, maybe.

The feel of a warm body beside him, and he knew, just knew, that if he reached up he would feel long blonde curves, and the soft yield of the only woman he'd ever met to match him in height, in wit. . .

Sam groaned. It had to be a lie, some kind of ruse concocted by Lucifer. Because there was no way he was getting this back. There was no way he'd get ot heaven. Not after the demon blood, not after the betrayals. Not after that look on Dean's face after they'd defeated Pestilence. . .correction, after he'd defeated pestilence, his face a cold mask, the pull for more blood deep within him.

_I forgive you_.

A warmth suffused him, and Sam suddenly, abruptly, felt that familiar course of faith run through him, encircling him, comforting him. That everpresent niggling in the back of his head that had kept him sane through the craziness of his childhood, that sense that there was something more than just hunting and creatures that went bump in the night.

Thank you, he thought, so grateful, so blessed.

_You have suffered much. You have suffered admirably_.

No, Sam thought. I broke. I drank demon blood. I knew it was wrong, but I did it anyway.

_The ends justify the means._

Do they?

_No. But your belief makes this all irrelevant. You have suffered much, I feel much sorrow._

Sam twitched, a little uncomfortable. Because, yeah, sometimes it had been Hell, but it hadn't always been all _that_ bad. He'd had a family growing up. He'd had Jess. He'd had four years of normalcy. He'd had a brother who would give up life and soul for him. He'd been loved more deeply than most people ever were. He'd saved lives. Hell, if he was where he thought he was (knew he was) talking to who he thought he was (knew he was) he'd saved the world. Wasn't that worth a little suffering?

_I cannot give you back all that you have lost. Cannot give you back your innocent. That is a scar that you must always wear, a cross you must always bear_.

Sam knew what he was referring to, that niggling pain that even now was at the back of his throat.

_I can give you back the rest. Give you back your youth, your love, your father._

Dean?

_Yes._

* * * * *

_You have done the one thing you may never, never do_.

I know.

_Why?_

You know.

_I cannot give back what you have thrown away. You disregarded your home, your family, your father. You have orphaned yourself_.

I know.

_It was your falling that called me back_.

I know.

_You and your brothers were given one command. To love my creation, and to care for them as I always cared for you_.

Yes.

_My love was always pure. It was never tainted like this._

I know.

_I never forsook you. My earthly creatures, yes. But you and your brothers. . .I never left you. And yet you left me._

I had no choice.

A pause, a beat, a light flicker of humor between the two. Because, after all, he shouldn't have had a choice. He hadn't had a choice to make, and yet.

_I owe you my thanks. Had you not fallen, I would not have turned. My sons would have destroyed my creation. And yet. . .and yet you have betrayed me_.

I cannot be sorry.

_I cannot give you back what you lost_.

I know.

_I still love you, just as I loved Lucifer._

Will you forget me, as you forgot him?

_He begged forgiveness. I accepted. He will join me again. Do you beg forgiveness, Castiel?_

I cannot, Father. I am not sorry. Not if it saved him. Not if it saved what he loves.

_I will give you all that I can. It will not be enough._

It already is.

_Human love is nothing compared to My love_.

I know, Father. It is flawed, and tragic, and greater.

* * * * *

"Jesus Christ!" Dean struggled up to a sitting position, ignoring his father's hand on his chest, trying to push him back down. "What the hell are you all doing in here? Just watching me sleep? It's creepy!" He glanced around at the room, filled to bursting. Sam, who was crying, just weeping like a little girl. His father, stuck in a wheelchair, but beaming. Jess, looking very good, Dean realized, in a low-cut blouse and tight, tight jeans. And. . .some weirdo chick in a long black dress. Behind them he saw still more faces. Bobby, still in the trucker hat he'd worn since he was younger. Bill Harvelle was there, with his wife, and that cute little slip of a daughter. Rufus was peeking around the corner, and Pastor Jim. Dean sighed.

"Seriously? Did you think I was going to kick it, or something? You plan a funeral?"

"Dean," Sam reached down, grasped his brother tightly. "Man, it's good to have you back."

"Yeah, whatever," Dean grumbled uncomfortably. It did feel good, though, to feel his brother's arms around him. It felt complete. And when his dad placed a hand on his ankle, and the weirdo girl placed a gentle kiss on his forehead he thought. . .well, hell, maybe almost dying wasn't so bad, after all.

And they'd killed the Yellow-Eyed Demon, hadn't they?


	7. Epilogue

The wedding was beautiful. The church was decorated, but simply, with white ribbons and small daisies, Jess's favorite. She'd walked down the aisle, a beacon of light, escorted by her father. Cassidy had been the bridesmaid, walking just in front. For those moments, walking down that simple aisle, she'd been able to imagine that it was her wedding. That the tall, handsome man standing near the altar with the wide smile and the sparkling green eyes was waiting for her. He nodded his head when she arrived, before clapping the taller man on the shoulder and whispering something in his ear.

Jess was a beacon of sunshine. Her father escorted her, but nobody saw him through the radiance of the bride. John Winchester sat in the front row, and Jess's father joined him, after kissing his daughter good-bye. Both men's eyes were brimming with tears. Cassidy could see her reflection shimmering in those unshed tears.

Pastor Jim officiated, as he should. Bobby read the first reading, and Caleb read the second. Ellen and Jo Harvelle had traveled down from the roadhouse to attend. Cassidy wasn't sure how she felt about that. Ellen was welcome, as ever, of course, but she didn't like the way that Dean's eyes kept drifting to Jo during the ceremony. Didn't like how lovely the girl looked in the pale rose dress she was wearing.

It was only three months after the defeat of the Yellow-Eyed demon. Three months since Cassidy had meant the Winchesters for the first time. Three months since Dean had woken up and she'd seen the green eyes that had so entranced her. Three months since Sam proposed, in an austere hospital room, since he'd gotten down on one knee. She'd cried, choked, and said yes.

Three months that Cassidy knew had changed the Winchester's life irrevocably. John Winchester had a job in Palo Alto, a simple job, back to being a mechanic. He hadn't so much as gone on Google, only read the international news. In that hospital room, he'd declared that his job was over. His vendetta was ended. He was done hunting. Apparently he'd been telling the truth.

Sam had been accepted to Stanford Law School. He complained occasionally of headaches. . .went into moods every once in a while, which Jess cheerfully compared to PMS – he had a bad case of "periodic migraine Sam" she would say, and though the doctors never found anything wrong, they still went in every few weeks. There were new creases in both of their faces. . .little worry lines. Not on this day, though, Cassidy noted clinically. Today both of their faces were young, worry-free, and filled with joy.

The second reading was strange, for a wedding. Caleb stood, tall, but a little uncomfortable. Cassidy felt something within her chest tighten.

"Fear not, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name: you are mine. You are precious in my eyes and glorious, and because I love you, I give men in return for you and peoples in exchange for your life. It is I who wipe out, for my own sake, your offenses; your sins I remember no more. Your first father sinned; your spokesmen rebelled against me. Fear not, be not troubled: did I not announce and foretell it, long ago?"

Throughout the long (too long, really) reading, Cassidy stared at Dean. Three months since she'd met him. Enough to change her life, though apparently not his. She had stayed by his side throughout his convalesence. She was quiet, and near. She was there when Sam and Jess had to return to school, was there when John went out looking for work. She was there when the Harvelles first dropped by, was there when Bobby arrived with his dirty hat and blustering demeanor.

She just sat, everpresent. She didn't speak – she didn't have to. It was enough to just look at him, to see the color slowly returning to his face, the freckles disappearing, the green eyes becoming brighter. She made him uncomfortable. She knew that. But she didn't know how to leave.

Throughout the long reading, Cassidy stared at Dean. And throughout it all, he just stared at Jo.

_Return to me. Ask forgiveness. Human love is nothing compared to My love_.

Her heart wretched. Her head burned. She wanted to reach out and touch him.

* * * * *

"Not now," Sam moaned. He pressed two fingers to the bridge of his nose.

_God,_ he thought. _Not tonight. Please. . .just give me until tomorrow. Let me have thi_s_._

"Honey, what's wrong?" Jess was there instantly, sensing as always his discomfort. But as abruptly as the pain had come on, it had disappeared, and Sam was able to smile up at his wife, brilliant and happy.

"Nothing," he said, and drew her into a tight embrace. "How could anything be wrong when I've just married the most beautiful woman in the entire world?"

* * * * *

Jo felt smug at the reception. There was no other way to put it, and she knew it was rude, and even a little cruel. She'd seen the little, mousey girl in the bridesmaid dress. Had seen the gazes she'd thrown toward Dean. She'd also noticed that he'd looked at her throughout the ceremony, smiled at _her_.

And it was only fair, after all. She'd loved him for, God, who knew how long. Since she could remember. Since his father and her father had returned from a hunt, exhausted and torn up, but both miraculously alive. John Winchester had dragged his two children into the roadhouse to celebrate. Sam, about her age, all big eyes and huge feet and a desire to just _talk_. And Dean, who'd grinned at her, ruffled her hair, and then gone to play pool with a pair of men three times his age. He'd been so cute, tall, big, older. . .she'd mostly just ignored little Sammy, and watched him.

So it was only fair that he'd finally started noticing that she wasn't little Jo anymore. She'd spent hours agonizing over her hair and make-up, over what dress to wear. To the point where her mother had threatened to leave without her. That thought was even more distressing than having messed up hair, so Jo had hurried after, in the end.

He was even hotter, now, Jo realized. He was easily the hottest guy there, even with his hospital pallor. She squared her shoulders, decided to head over and talk to him. Ignore the fact that little Betty Blue Eyes was still standing next to him.

She walked over, careful to sway a little bit. She stepped in, a little too close, smiled up at him. Such beautiful eyelashes. . .

"Hi, Dean," she said. He smiled down at her, perfect white teeth.

"Hey, Jo," he said. "You look really great!"

"Thank you," she said, resisting the urge to tell him that she'd done it all for him.

"Hello, Jo," little Betty Blue Eyes said, a little creepily, actually. Jo glared at her for a moment, before remembering that they'd met in the hospital, that maybe it wasn't so creepy after all. But was the girl even going to blink?

"Um. . .yeah, hi," Jo said, still blanking on the girls' name. She turned back to Dean. "it was a beautiful wedding, wasn't it?"

"Yeah, beautiful," Dean said. Betty Blue Eyes suddenly stiffened, reached out and grabbed Dean's arm. He glanced down at it, then at her. "What's up, Cassidy? Is something wrong?"

She was trembling now, pale and ram-rod straight. "It's just. . .I'm sorry. I know you said that you're quitting the business. But it's. . ."

Jo pouted. Really? Bringing business into all of this? She took another halfstep toward Dean, put her hand on his other shoulder. "Dean? What's wrong?"

"Cassidy, what is it?" Dean asked. Jo frowned again. She was _way_ prettier than that underdeveloped waif. The girl was in serious need of a push-up bra.

"I think. . .I think there's a demon. Nearby," Cassidy dropped her eyes. Dean abruptly grabbed the other woman, shrugged off Jo's arm, and hurried off through the crowd. Not even a good-bye.

"Fine," Jo said, crossing her arms across her chest. Dean Winchester might be the hottest thing since Mario Lopez, but if he was such a dunce that he didn't know a good thing when it pressed up against his chest. If he liked crazy, cutting board flat girls who just talked about demons all the time. . .he could have her. There was plenty of other beautiful men around.

With a flick of her head, blond hair flying, she determined to walk off and find one.

* * * * *

Dean was surprised – shocked – when Cassidy followed him to the car. He was more shocked when she slid silently into the back seat.

"What are you doing?" he asked. She met his eyes in the rearview mirror , that same freakishly intense blue gaze that she'd been using in the hospital.

"I'm coming with you," she said.

"Okay. . ." Dean was primed to argue, but then figured, hell, she already knew about demons, anyway, might as well take her along. He was never one to cut out on an advantage. He turned the key in the ignition, felt a wave of happiness as Metalicar began playing. Really, he thought, not much could be better than this. His family safe and sound, his ass firmly entrenched in the comforting leather of his baby, rocking the good tunes, and gearing up for a hunt. Life was pretty damn good.

Until, that is, the passenger door opened, and six feet of tuxedo plopped into the seat next to him. "What the hell are you doing? He asked. Sam turned to look at him, big blue-green eyes wide in surprise.

"You said you were hunting a demon," he said, as though it were the most obvious thing ever. Dean squinted over at his brother, suspicious. Glanced in the back, wondering if Cassidy were involved, if this was some kind of trick, but she was still just sitting, hands primly folded, back rod straight.

"You just got married!"

"Jess understands," Sam said. He put on one of his massive bitchfaces, leaned over, and turned down the volume. "Jesus, Dean, you're going to go deaf one of these days."

Dean barked out a laugh, just once, short. He threw one arm over the back of his seat, glanced at Cassidy again – still those intense blue eyes – began backing up.

Yeah, life was pretty damn good.


	8. Epilogue 2

_Had John Winchester been in Heaven, he would have seen God as his dead wife, with long blonde hair and gentle hands. Had Bobby Singer been there, he would have seen God as his own wife, dark hair and spitting brown eyes. Had Castiel been there he would have seen in God a familiar figure, in faded clothes and short hair, with warm green eyes. Had Sam been there, he would have seen in God an old man, face worn and creased, and long white beard. Had Dean been there he would have seen nothing at all._

_ To the angels standing before Him, they saw only Judgement._

_ Michael and Lucifer exchanged long, anguish-filled glances. Michael reached out, and clutched his brothers hand in desperate desperation. _

_ "We'll face him. . .together," Michael said. Lucifer tried to smile a brave smile._

_ But their Father was not beckoning to them to come forward, but rather the two skulking angels before him. With contrite contrition written across their angelic faces, Gabriel and Zachariah stepped forward._

_ "Gabriel," Said God. "You have betrayed me."_

_ "Never," Gabriel whispered. Gone were the years of pleasure and fornication, replaced by beautific beauty at seeing his true father again. "I just couldn't stand all of the fighting."_

_ "Oh, okay then," said God, and instantly, Gabriel disappeared, leaving the Lord's gaze upon his least-favorite son._

_ "You have betrayed me."_

_ "Never," Zachariah said. "We were just trying to fulfill YOUR prophecies."_

_ "Oh, please," Said God. "Everybody knows that John just went crazy at the end. None of that had to happen."_

_ "Sorry."_

_ God finally turned to the brother angels, who still clasped one another in both hope and fear. "Lucifer, are you sorry?"_

_ "Very sorry, Lord," Lucifer said, and his eyes pled for forgiveness. His brother had forgiven him, but he did not know if his Lord could._

_ "You have behaved honorably," God said. "You may return to Heaven."_

_ Like Gabriel before him, Lucifer vanished instantly, in a moment. Only Michael and Zachariah remained now._

_ "Father," Michael said, and in his Voice was Power, and on his head sat Wisdom. "Who then will watch over Hell?"_

_ The Lord smiled again, turned to Zachariah and_

"No, no, no!" Frustrated, Chuck leaned over and deleted everything that he'd just written. It was ridiculous. It was stupid. What would his readers think? To switch suddenly from the monster-fighting Winchesters to some kind of a power struggle in Heaven? They'd think he was some kind of megalomaniac! To write about the Apocalypse. . .to make angels and Gods characters. It was too much, even for him.

Still, he had to write something. His last piece, in which Sam had shot his father, killing the Yellow-Eyed Demon forever, had been published a month ago. His publisher was screaming for another book. Chuck was pretty certain that _she_ just wanted to know what happened next. Obviously she wasn't anxious about sales. Chuck wasn't sure that anyone outside of his immediate family had bought the books.

But they'd been a part of him for so long now, that he didn't know how to stop writing. They'd just appeared in his dreams, one day, those two scarred, messed-up brothers and their half-abusive father. He'd sat down at his computer, just started typing. Hadn't been able to stop when his boss from Mr. Cluck's called, threatened to fire him if he missed another shift. Hadn't been able to stop when Lucky, his regular girl, showed up in only panties and a trench coat. The words had just flown, and he'd been. . .compelled. . .to write.

Until three months ago, when it had all just. . .stopped. He'd had little flashes at night. . .the angels in heaven, some kind of a renengade tax accountant, the Four Horsemen, something about Sam and demon blood. . .but they were just flashes, and when he woke up, the meat of the story, the bulk of it, had disappeared.

Three months and he'd finished not a single chapter. He didn't know what happened to them. The story was done, wasn't it? John, Sam, and Dean, reunited in the hospital, vowing to give up Hunting. Nobody wanted to read about a lawyer and his mechanic family. But that's all that was left.

"It's not fair!" Chuck lifted his arms to the heavens and screamed. "What am I supposed to do? How am I supposed to continue!"

He stared at the ceiling for a minute, waiting for inspiration to come crashing down. Nothing did. It was over. Clearly.

"Damn it. . ." Chuck sighed, leaned forward, stared morosely at his computer. Maybe. . .one last try. . .one last shot. . .and they'd he'd put back on that red and white striped apron and beg for a cashier's job. Maybe if he just put his hands on the keyboard, if he just closed off his mind. . .

_Dean looked with anguish at the dying lights of the party. His body was wracked with pain and joy. Pain, that he was losing his Sammy. Joy, that Sammy was getting back all that he desired. He put one hand lovingly on the hood of his beloved Impala, and sidled in to her warm, leather embrace. The soft curves of the seat hugged his body like a woman, and a small sigh escaped him. He was home._

_ Then, suddenly, as abrupt as something very sudden, the back door opened, and the strangely beautiful woman sat down behind him. He tried to remember her name, and surprisingly it cut through all the memories of his other loves. Cassidy. He glanced back at her, at her porcelein skin and cerulean blue eyes. _

_ "What are you doing?" he asked, his voice husky with want and need._

_ "I'm coming with you," she said, her pretty mouth parted prettily. Dean swallowed the lump that rose in his throat. He didn't want to risk her pretty neck, but there was a hardness to her, too. He thought, maybe, that she would make a good partner after all. Their gazes locked for a long, intense second._

_ "Okay," he said, and he smiled at her winningly. She smiled back. He was about to tell her to sit beside him, when the passenger door opened and Sam settled in. The two brothers exchanged a long, meaningful look. _

_"What the hell are you doing?" Dean asked, his voice cloaked in emotion._

_ "You're fighting a demon," Sam said. "You're my brother. I love you. I would never want you to do this alone."_

_ Dean raised his hand to his face, and tried to brush away the tears before anyone saw them. He was not surprised to see similar tears in his brothers eyes. A sniffle behind them assured him that Cassidy, too, was crying. He turnd the key in the ignition, and the Winchesters backed out, away from the happy normalcy of the party. They had a hunt to attend to._


End file.
